On The Nature Of Daylight
by TwistedGoth
Summary: Timo and Berwald have always had a friendship that walks the line of contempt. It's hard to keep faith in someone who constantly proclaims neutrality when you need him the most. However, the corrosion of one partnership can oftentimes lead to another. Oddly enough, Timo discovers, a friendship with Ludwig is just as delicate and strange, if not more satisfying.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **: Dunno. I was baking mustikkapiirakka and a Donauwellen at the same time. Yeah.

**Warnings! **: Language, angst, dissolution of friendship, some Finland x Germany friendliness (if you want, I guess you can interpret it as fluff), a heavy dose of America, mentions of war, etc. I love Sweden (obviously), so not an attempt to attack him. Merely an observation from Finland's point of view. Not meant to be a detailed analysis of the Finnish Civil War, which is a topic I will not delve whole-heartedly into, for respect's sake. Actually, not meant to be a serious study of war at all. Just the relationship between Germany and Finland.

Love to hear from you guys, and as always, thanks for reading. To anyone knowledgeable about Finnish history or history in general, I apologize in advance for any errors, although I do strive double to make sure there aren't any at all.

Three shot.

* * *

**On The Nature Of Daylight**

Daylight was a curious thing.

Far up north, where sometimes there was day and sometimes there wasn't, some of the best times of the year weren't holidays; not Christmas, or the New Year, or May Day. Not All Saints' Day.

It was whenever the sun came out.

Light streaming through the trees, dust dancing in the beams, and the snow melting as the grass sprouted up.

The best times.

Times spent in the daylight.

Daylight could cure just about anything, just by _being_.

Curious.

But sometimes, daylight dissolved.

Shadows crept.

And war blotted out the sun like smoke on the horizon.

War.

The great war.

And something else.

_Civil _war.

The hardest to swallow.

So many centuries of having Berwald doing everything for him hadn't prepared him for any of _this_, he would be the first to admit, and it was already proving to be a great test.

The threat of having his country implode in on itself, when he'd only been standing on his own feet for such a short period of time, was devastating.

He couldn't even imagine the sun coming out in the summer, let alone enjoying the daylight anymore.

Everything was overcast. Dreary. Dark. Cold.

Shadows constantly shifting in the distance.

And knowing that he was a breath away from complete civil war was really the only thing then that had led Timo to finally suck in a great breath and swallow his pride, and go crawling back to Berwald.

He didn't _want _to.

Such a delicate situation had all but forced his hand, and with the Whites and Reds shoving at each other, there was really no choice but to end the whole thing as quickly as possible.

And between Berwald and Ivan, Berwald was the lesser evil.

He had once been a friend.

Well.

Maybe _friend _was a strong word.

Certainly Berwald had always had a great interest in him, hovering over him since before he could remember and keeping him tucked firmly under a foot of dominance, and certainly they had been together for many, many years, but maybe it hadn't been _friendship _quite so much as bullying.

Berwald usually took whatever he wanted, and asked questions later, and Timo had never really been able to open up his mouth and tell Berwald where he could go and what he could do to himself, and instead kept silent and still, and just let Berwald do whatever he'd wanted.

And after so long, he had even come to rely and depend on Berwald, who had spent so long looking down at him and speaking for him that he had almost forgotten how to do it himself.

Berwald had never left him alone.

Of course, Berwald's interest had dimmed considerably once he was no longer part of Sweden.

It wasn't like he'd wanted to be nothing more than a territory of the Swedish Empire.

In all honesty, he couldn't even really remember how that had happened in the first place.

It had been so long ago.

It had been a shock, almost, to discover that he could _really_ be a nation unto himself. His own man, so to speak, and really run things on his own without Berwald telling him how.

Of course, after Berwald it had been Ivan telling him what to do.

But at least he'd kind of been autonomous.

He'd only been truly independent now for a few measly months.

However...

His stand as a sovereign nation was not going well so far.

But, he was quick to remind himself, how could it really be _expected _to, when half of his country were Swedes left behind from Berwald's reign, and some of the others were Russians? Half of his own people didn't even speak Finnish.

Newspapers had only ever been in Swedish.

Ha.

Some nation he was! Scraps from other nations' tables.

Ivan had been thrust out, if not mostly unofficially, but he'd left plenty of ideologues behind.

And so, he concluded, it was Berwald's _duty _to intervene in this mess, as the northern Whites and the southern Reds threatened to rip the whole country apart, because it had been Berwald who had spent countless decades making him feel that he couldn't do anything on his own.

Berwald had made him feel like the child to a weary adult.

So let Berwald be the adult now, and fix this fuckin' disaster.

Besides, the Whites were mostly former Swedes anyway, keeping hold of the farmlands up north after Berwald had given it to them and told them they were more important than the Finnish-speakers lower down.

Now the south was industrialized and Russified, and the Reds wanted the Whites to be that way too.

And even though Timo felt something that bordered on contempt for Berwald, he _hated _Ivan.

Hated him.

Berwald had crippled his growth and kept him isolated from the world, but Ivan was just the same, only under a different flag.

Couldn't win with either one of them.

Berwald wasn't interested in him so much anymore, so a White victory was best for Finland, and would ensure the continued growth and stabilization of his country.

Assuming, of course, that he'd still _be _a country, afterwards.

What a way to start off.

Berwald had not prepared him for any of this.

For the hardships.

But he was too proud and too stubborn to really admit his faults, and so, when he finally procured his meeting with Berwald and stood there in the room before him, he was careful to make sure that he remembered to point out to Berwald that most of this was _his _fault anyway.

Because it was.

"So, I assume you've noticed all the trouble lately?"

Timo kept his back against the wall, arms crossed above his chest, and tried to appear nonchalant.

Even as his heart hammered.

He couldn't control this on his own.

He needed help.

Berwald's help.

Standing there like a statue, pale hair a bit messy and looking a little tired, Berwald only looked him up and down, and then tilted his head.

A deep, "Mm-hm."

Timo observed his wrinkled suit and the dark circles under his eyes, and, oddly enough, felt no sympathy.

What did Berwald have to be so exhausted about?

He'd claimed neutrality in the great war.

No problems for _him_.

And Timo's country was crumbling out from under his feet only months after Russia had fallen.

Jerk.

"So, Timo continued, casually, "What's your opinion on the matter?"

Berwald moved then, shifting his weight awkwardly, and tucked his hands in his pockets, squaring his broad shoulders as he averted his eyes. Finally, he muttered, "Don't have one."

A twinge of anger.

"Oh? How's that?" he asked, feeling the strain in his voice, and Berwald's shifting became restless.

The anger was ever blazing.

Sure, Berwald had always had an opinion for him _before_, but now that he was on his own, not even a thought? Not a little word of observation? Nothing?

Really?

"I shouldn't get involved."

Oh?

_Now _Berwald didn't want to get involved?

"Well," Timo was quick to continue, "I suppose you just haven't seen firsthand what's going on. I'd be happy to sit down with you and explain the situation."

He could not keep the note of unfriendliness from his voice, and Berwald picked up on it with a quick, half-hearted glare.

But he didn't speak.

Timo pressed forward.

"Or maybe you'd like to swing by, and see things for yourself? You remember the Whites, right? You know, all those people you left behind when we split. Remember?"

"I didn' leave anyone behind. They were born there. That was our land."

Ours.

Right.

Liar—it had never been _their _land. It had been Berwald's.

It had always been called 'Sweden'. Always. Just part of the empire.

Well, it was _his _land now, and yet most of the northerners still spoke Swedish.

So, even though it was _his_ land, that made Berwald responsible, too.

"Right. So act like it's still _our _land, then. Come help."

No answer.

The agitation was growing.

The air became tense.

Berwald didn't move.

He just stood there, a strange look upon his face, glasses glinting in the dim light and feet always shuffling, and Timo felt his heart drop steadily down into his stomach.

Silence.

No reaction.

He _hated _asking for help.

But what else could he do?

The threat of civil war was too frightening.

With a deep breath, Timo took a step forward, furrowed his brow, and said, sternly, "Well? Are you going to help out or not? The Whites are your responsibility, too! You were the one that split them all up and made some better than the others. A lot of the Whites don't even speak Finnish! They're your people, too! Help them out. The faster this all ends, the better. You were always in my business before. Why stop now?"

A plea, if not a rather abrasive one.

His hands dropped down at his sides, and he waited.

Lurching of adrenaline.

But Berwald only ducked his chin down into his cravat, and stayed strangely quiet.

The sinking turned into dread.

"Well?"

His voice was nearly a whine; high-pitched and cracking.

Desperate.

He needed _help_.

And finally, Berwald shook his head, and murmured, lowly, "Can't. Sorry."

A moment of stunned disbelief.

"What?"

Berwald turned his back, shifting his weight this way and that as he stared out into space.

"I can't. Can't get involved. Not with this war goin' on. Too much trouble. ...sorry."

"That's—that's all you have to say?" was all he managed, and he couldn't help but stomp his foot. "After all that, that's all you have to say? You _can't_? Why the hell not?"

A short hesitation, and Berwald's voice was so low that it was barely audible.

"If I step in, I lose neutrality. Russia'll take it personally. Can't take sides. Not in the war. Boss said so."

"How is it taking _sides_?" he spat back, infuriated and agitated and _hurt_, "They're _your _people too! How is that a side? Won't you help 'em out? What's wrong with you?"

No answer.

Devastation.

Berwald wasn't going to help him.

It barely sank in.

Now, because he wasn't a part of Sweden anymore, Berwald would not stand up to help him.

And that wasn't a friendship.

Timo had never been allowed to make decisions.

And now Berwald refused to make one.

Hurt mingled with confusion, and frustration.

Because it had been Berwald all _along _who had been hovering over him, an invisible hand tangled up in his collar and always overbearing and always dragging him along, and yet now it was Berwald who stood there, shoulders slumped and grumbling half-assed excuses even as Timo threw away his pride and asked for help from a man he swore he would never run to again.

Berwald wouldn't help.

But he couldn't do this _alone_!

He had no choice.

He cast aside his pride, and pushed down the urge to cry, and clasped his hands before him.

"_Please_! I need you to _help_! If you won't step in, won't you at least help them out? Can't you send them arms? Can't you send in volunteers? _Anything_!"

Oh, how it killed him inside to beg like this.

To Berwald, of all people.

He'd rather have gone crawling to literally anyone else on the entire planet.

_Anyone _but Berwald.

There was no answer.

Berwald, facing away from him, stayed still.

Nothing.

Drums of distant war echoed in his ears.

The despair was overwhelming, and he had never imagined that he would leave this meeting the same way he had come in; alone, and in dire straights.

What a mess.

What a betrayal.

Berwald had betrayed him.

In the worst way.

And yet...

He shook his head to clear it, shoved down the ball in his throat, and straightened his back.

"Right," he finally whispered, barely keeping the tremor from his voice, "I see. Well, that's that, then."

And with that, he turned on his heel, and walked towards the door.

And yet, somehow, he wasn't really surprised. Some part of him had had a feeling that this would play out exactly as it had.

As he left, stepping into the hall and pulling the door shut from behind, he heard Berwald's deep, mournful voice call after him, "Sorry."

But he _wasn't _sorry.

All talk.

Berwald was all talk.

Neutral.

He could barely even remember the last time he had been so _angry_, because Berwald was only there when it would benefit Sweden, and a civil war in the middle of Finland was hardly worth sticking his nose in. And Berwald's neutrality was only a front to keep his options open. If the Whites won, then that was just great, and life carried on. If the Reds won, then he wouldn't have taken sides and so could keep up good relations with Russia.

Coward.

Self-absorbed, self-serving, back-stabbing son of a bitch.

Finland had only been of interest to Sweden when it had been a territory.

Now, no go.

Not worth the time and effort.

Berwald wasn't going to help him.

The words left a bitter taste at the back of his throat, and it _hurt _to know that he was on his own, and that the one who had all but pressed him under his boot for centuries wouldn't even offer a hand in friendship now.

How strange, and how unfair, that Berwald and Ivan had successfully caused a civil war within his lands without ever showing their faces.

He returned to his tumultuous home with his tail pressed firmly between his legs.

Winter days passed in dismal moods and thoughts.

What could he do?

Finns against Finns.

Whites against Reds.

Nobody won.

Well.

If Berwald wouldn't jump in because he was afraid of getting on Ivan's bad side, then maybe he could look for someone who was already _on _Ivan's bad side.

No lack of contenders there.

And the first person that came to mind, although the most obvious, wasn't exactly the best.

So, he tried to think of others.

Roderich and Erszébet were out, already too exhausted with repeated battles on the Isonzo, and they didn't have the resources and the manpower and the money anyway. Broke.

Sadiq was frightening and unapproachable. No way.

The Bulgarians were only interested in Serbia. Unlikely.

And well, that only left...

Oh, man.

It would be embarrassing, and a little shameful (_very _shameful), to call up Ludwig, so heavily entrenched in the awful war down on the Western Front, and beg for help.

Ludwig, who was pretty much fighting the entire war himself, shouldering everyone else and making all of the decisions, and it would be mortifying to bother him in the middle of all of this and plead for assistance because he couldn't keep his country together.

Ludwig was too busy.

Ludwig was too tired.

Ludwig was too...

Too _intimidating_, actually.

Ludwig, who'd risen up and done everything on his own and become the greatest power in Europe.

He was afraid to even _think _of asking.

But, well...

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

It had taken him weeks to gather up the courage to do what needed to be done, and it had taken four separate occasions of dialing the number before he finally let it ring long enough to be picked up.

His heart had hammered so hard he thought he'd faint.

The first time he'd ever heard Ludwig's voice had been a little overwhelming.

He'd seen Ludwig from a distance, when he'd met with Berwald, but he'd never actually spoken to him, and he'd never really _met _him.

He remembered Ludwig as being rather daunting, tall and pale and icy-eyed, voice as deep as thunder and so strong and confident for one so young, a sort of unstoppable wolf next to Berwald's wise lion, and so it was frightening to consider actually speaking to him now, and in such circumstances.

Oh. God.

"_Hello_?"

A burst of rumbling thunder, and he recognized Ludwig's voice immediately.

"H-hey! Hey, Ludwig, it's Timo! Do you remember me?"

A short hesitation, and then Ludwig, his deep voice scratchy and a little sleepy, said, "_Oh! Yeah, I remember. How have you been_?"

"Not so good."

"_Ah. Well. Join the club_."

A nervous laugh, and Timo was beginning to reconsider the entire thing, and pretend that he was only calling to offer verbal support.

But knowing that the blood of his people was already starting to flow was enough to keep him pressing forward.

"_So_," Ludwig began, at his silence, "_To what do I owe this pleasure_?"

Well, now or never.

"Look, I know you've been, ah, busy lately, and I know you're really tired, so it's not like you _have _to!"

"_What's wrong_?"

"I need help. I'm about to go into all-out civil war. I've gotta finish this up as soon as I can. Can you—that is, if you want to, do you think you could spare some firepower? Oh, damn, I _hate _asking, I know you're so loaded down right now!"

He expected a rebuttal.

He expected a sharp, 'Alfred is kickin' my ass all the way back to the dark ages, and you want me to send you some machine guns?'

It didn't come.

And immediately, Ludwig said, "_Of course_."

Even though he'd _heard _it, it didn't really click, and he could only shake his head to himself and utter, "R-really?"

"_Of course. I'll send arms and men as soon as I can. Give me a few days."_

Wow.

His first comprehensible thought.

Shocked and feeling a breathless smile creep over his face, Timo finally managed to grip the phone and say, "Thank you! Thank you so much! Are you sure it's not a problem? I know you're stretched out pretty thin right now against France—"

"_It's alright. I can spare it_."

Sputtered thanks and mindless gushing later, he set down the phone, and it was with a jittery feeling in his chest that he leaned back into his seat, tucked his hands behind his head, and heaved a great sigh.

It was the last thing he ever wanted, to arm one side of his country so that they could fight the other side, but if cooperation and negotiation were impossible, then it was better to get the Whites armed and trained and get them a victory.

And make it clear to Ivan that he wasn't going to just sit back and take it.

Not anymore.

He had learned long ago from Alfred that sometimes terrible sacrifices had to be made for the good of the country.

What else could he do?

He waited for Ludwig's aid.

Daylight streamed in through the windows.

* * *

And Ludwig was as good as his word.

The first sight of the guns had been like a strike of lightening.

The reality sank in.

He was really going to arm some of his countrymen to kill others.

Oh, God...

He hadn't know it would be this _hard._

Not like _this_.

He hadn't ever known it would be like this.

He could only take comfort in how strong Alfred was now, and how he had seemingly recovered so well from his own catastrophe.

He could do it.

He could.

And he _didn't _need Berwald.

He had Ludwig.

* * *

'Either you'll do it, or you'll cry and you'll do it.'

The old women had said that, as they grabbed their grandchildren by the ears and tugged them along, and Timo could see now how true it was.

He _had_ to do it.

Even if he didn't want to.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't cry about it.

It was worse than he could have ever imagined.

Blood in the fields.

Camps on both sides built up.

Impromptu executions in the streets.

Little kids with guns in hands, running through the roads next to adults and shooting their neighbors.

He didn't sleep.

Couldn't.

Gunfire and the sharp smell of blood kept him awake.

Nightmares, always.

Maybe he wasn't cut out for war. It had seemed a lot easier when Berwald had done it all. Berwald had always gone off to great battles with his head held high and shoulders braced, the vision of complete confidence.

Berwald.

Fuckin' Berwald hadn't even called to check in.

Who needed him?

For now, he spent his time trying to hold things together and always looking to secure a truce between the two sides. But neither of them would relent, and they seemed to be at a stalemate.

He wanted to speed things up.

He couldn't bear much more of this.

The Whites needed an extra push.

How many more had to die?

He wanted it over.

So, he picked up the phone.

Again.

Maybe he was starting to lean on Ludwig like he had always leaned on Berwald.

He longed to find his own two feet, but it was proving to be difficult, after so long belonging to someone else.

He hadn't been free for long.

He couldn't figure it out.

It was like a puzzle he couldn't finish.

Ring, ring.

"_Hello_?"

"Hey, it's me."

Ludwig knew his voice now, and kept his own calm and polite.

"_Hey, Timo. How's it going? You holding together alright_?"

"I'll survive," he replied, even though it seemed like wishful thinking, and Ludwig gave a deep, somewhat dry laugh.

"_I have no doubt_."

Time for another shameful request.

"Can you spare some more weapons? Maybe some tanks...or something?" he finally asked, feeling shamed and weak.

But there was no disdain in Ludwig's voice, and what he said next was something that Timo would never, ever forget, not as long as he lived :

"_I'll do more than that. See you in a few days_."

A click.

The disbelief then had only been intensified when Ludwig had made good on his word, and did, in fact, show up on his doorstep a few days later.

A rush of gratitude, and adrenaline.

The first time he'd ever met Ludwig face to face.

Standing there before the door, uniform immaculate and not a hair out of place and pale skin bright in the white sun, he'd been nearly everything Timo had remembered.

The great German Empire right before him.

The war had obviously taken its toll on him; like Berwald, the dark circles hung under his eyes, and there were a few bruises visible here and there, and he looked a little wan.

But, despite it all, Ludwig still seemed supreme and powerful.

Collected and dignified, chin held high and eyes narrowed in easy confidence, even as the war grinded on.

Hair and eyes like lightening.

A real-life Ukko come to earth.

Ha!

Timo couldn't help the exhilaration.

Because who would _ever _need Berwald, when Ludwig was willing to help out?

Fuck Berwald.

Such history between them, and he couldn't even toss a damn gun to help out.

Well.

Ludwig was standing here, wasn't he?

"Come in!" he said, perhaps too eagerly, and when Ludwig crossed the threshold, boots heavy on the wooden floor and removing his hat politely as he dusted off snow, Timo could already feel a little relief.

He just wanted this to be over with.

Ludwig stood there, silently, and looked around.

The pale winter sun lit up the room in a cool glow.

His ally was here.

A stillness.

Ludwig, tall and handsome, was just as intimidating as he had always remembered.

Glad to see him, though.

"Well," he finally said, as he lowered weary arms and tried to smile at Ludwig, "I'm glad you made it alright."

"It wasn't a problem," Ludwig responded, in that calm, dignified voice he used in the presence of intelligent company, "Berwald escorted me personally."

"Ah."

A moment of tense silence.

He hadn't expected that.

Ludwig, taking note of the look on his face, lifted his brow.

"He's given me access to his waters, until this is cleared up. In addition, he's also allowed some of his people to volunteer. So a few of them are here, too. Not many. Guess he sweet-talked his boss a little, huh?"

Volunteers.

Berwald.

...didn't even wanna hear his fuckin' name.

He was far too bitter to even care.

It was too late.

He'd asked Berwald for help, and he'd refused.

This wasn't going to fix it.

Too late.

"So!" he began, too loudly, trying to change the subject, "I made some kalja. Sit."

Ludwig did.

And as Timo stood before the stove, he heard Ludwig tapping his foot, and then a deep question from behind.

"What's kalja?"

"A drink," he supplied, and the smile on his face was pleasant.

It had been a long time since he'd smiled.

A long time.

"Ah," came the charming rumble of Ludwig's voice. "That sounds nice. I could use a drink."

"I bet."

Once he actually sat down in front of Ludwig, mugs in hand, it was almost like a dream.

He'd been living under someone else for most of his life, and now look at him!

Having a drink with one of the most powerful nations on earth.

"So," Ludwig said, when they were both settled, "Why don't you fill me in on exactly what's going on?"

An invitation to speak.

And Timo was more than happy to oblige.

He opened his mouth, and told Ludwig everything.

He made no effort to omit his ill-feelings towards Ivan and Berwald.

Actually, he seemed to linger on them.

Nothing they didn't deserve.

Ludwig sipped at the kalja and listened intently, nodding when it was needed and offering a word of wisdom every so often, and the weight on Timo's shoulders was lifted, just a little.

Sitting with Ludwig was like sitting with hope, because Ludwig's presence meant that the civil war would finally be forced to an end. With Ludwig's men training and aiding the Whites and taking control of this situation, the end would come soon.

He was grateful.

To see his people shooting each other in the streets was not how he had wanted to start himself off.

Ludwig had only one condition :

"We're fighting the Finnish Reds. Not Russia. Got it?"

"Got it."

Russia had collapsed from the war, and it was unwise to stoke it any further.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

He just wanted it all to be over with, and he wouldn't go out of his way to antagonize deadly enemies.

And Ludwig, thankfully, seemed to understand his woes and worries, and was quick to offer consolation.

"Don't worry," he said, as they started on their third glasses, "I'm sure this won't last too much longer. It's nothing you won't get through."

"You make it sound so easy!" he said, as he held his mug in his hands and watched Ludwig with a careful eye. "But I guess you're used to war, huh?"

"I don't think you ever get used to it. You just get a little better every time."

Maybe it was a mark of his dependence on others that he couldn't really imagine himself getting any better the next time it happened.

He wasn't sure he wanted to be one of those nations who were skilled in every aspect of the war machine.

He'd rather go out and enjoy the daylight when it came.

"I hope I don't have to deal with it much."

Ludwig only smiled, and leaned back in his chair, shoulders lowering a bit.

"Me too. You've been around for a long, long time. I'm glad you haven't really turned out like me. I've had enough of war."

He hadn't really expected to hear that from someone like Ludwig, and placed his chin in his palm.

"Oh? Well, you've really got it down to a science, you know? I know you're the first I'd come to for help in a war."

"Ha. Thanks."

The daylight faded into night, and as they continued to drink, Timo found that his chest was lightening a little, and he was glad to have someone sitting here with him.

He'd been pretty much on his own since he and Berwald had parted ways, and Ivan had never really had the desire to hang around him so much as bully from afar and over the phone.

Nice not to be alone, and with someone who would actually help him.

This catastrophe was looking like it was about to come to wind down. Now that Ludwig was here, things would start to calm.

The beginning of the end.

The hours passed.

And even as he sat there before Ludwig, switching to vodka when the kalja ran out, he was surprised (but pleasantly so) that someone like Ludwig—strong and brave and intelligent—was leaning forward and smiling at him as though he were speaking to a friend.

An equal.

He had dreaded this encounter for so long. Just the thought of it had been enough to make his stomach churn. To meet someone as strong as Ludwig, who was so fearless and bold, had been _frightening_.

But Ludwig just sat there, shoulders loose and stance unguarded, and when he spoke, there was no superiority or condescending notes in his voice.

Just talk.

He was so used to Berwald and Ivan talking _over _him that he'd really almost forgotten what it was like to have someone talking _to _him.

After so many years of Berwald telling him what to do.

Of Ivan coming in and taking the ground from beneath him.

So long with someone else making all of the decisions for him.

It felt strange.

But damn good.

Satisfying.

It was great to be treated as a respectable, self-sufficient being, rather than just a possession.

Not that Ludwig didn't have territories that he watched over, but _he _wasn't one of them, and Ludwig didn't treat him like one, and that was more than enough.

Vodka flowed.

The more Ludwig drank, the more he smiled, and the more he smiled, the less intimidating he was.

His laugh was as charming as his voice.

Actually, Ludwig wasn't really scary at all.

Not once he settled in and started to loosen up.

Or maybe that was his own tipsiness making him less anxious.

They chatted.

But not about war.

About things they wanted to do when war was over.

And it seemed that Ludwig, like himself, wanted nothing more than to go outside in the peace and quiet and bask in the sunlight, and just not worry about anything.

Ludwig wasn't scary.

Maybe the uniform didn't make the man, after all.

He felt like he was with a comrade.

And when Ludwig placed his elbow on the table and challenged him to a random bout of arm-wrestling, Timo accepted immediately, even though he knew Ludwig would win.

But he gave his best effort, and they laughed through grimaces of exertion as they each tried to claim victory, and it was no surprise when Ludwig won.

He was, however, surprised when Ludwig reached up and rubbed his bicep, before finally quipping, "Say! You're pretty damn strong! I think you almost got me. Thought my bone was gonna snap there for a second."

A rush of adrenaline.

Strong.

What a strange word!

"You think?" he gushed, maybe a little too eagerly, and Ludwig only nodded as he massaged his arm.

After a short silence, Ludwig took up another glass, and suddenly said, "Don't know why you look so surprised. All you've been through. I thought you'd've split from Berwald a long time ago."

"I wanted to," he was quick to toss out. "I just...wasn't really sure about myself, I guess."

"Well," Ludwig said, airily, "You shouldn't worry. You'll do fine on your own."

With those words in the air, a boost of confidence, he found himself smiling all through the night, and when they finally called it quits and went to bed, he actually slept.

It was easier to fall asleep knowing that the solution to his problem was sleeping in the spare room down the hall.

Relief.

In the morning, when dawn broke, Ludwig took him out to the edge of the forest where the soldiers slept, and showed off the men he'd brought here with him. Trained Jägers, elite soldiers, the best guns available, and plenty of seriousness.

His excitement was dampened by despair.

Oh, if he could have only settled all of this without any killing...

He may have sought help for the Whites, but the Reds were his people too.

He didn't want to hurt any of them.

He just wanted it to be over with.

That was all.

And that was why he took a deep breath, and looked them over, listening to Ludwig speak and reminding himself that this was for everyone's well-being.

Ludwig was quick to point out everything, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice.

Timo noticed something else, too.

When Ludwig stood out there beside of him in front of the Jägers, he did not position himself slightly ahead or shove a domineering shoulder in front of Timo to mark him as inferior.

Instead, he stood there at his side, and at a respectable distance.

Equals.

Like they were equals.

Berwald had always walked in front.

Ludwig stood at his side.

And it was a feeling that he couldn't put into words.

He couldn't stop beaming, as the Jägers started to march off, and he knew his chest was puffing out.

How wonderful it felt, to have someone acknowledge him and just know that he was strong and capable and worthy of their respect.

To know that he was a nation, too.

Not a territory.

Not a piece of land for the taking.

"It's pretty here," Ludwig suddenly murmured, when they were alone, and Timo sighed.

"Yeah. Say, it's Friday. Why don't you stay for the weekend?"

Company would be nice.

There was a hesitation, and then Ludwig snorted.

"Sure! Why not?"

And so Ludwig stayed, and Timo knew that it was because he was exhausted, after four long years of war, and so he did everything he could to be an accommodating host, and make his newfound ally of sorts as comfortable as possible.

A few days out in a cabin in the Finnish woods would do Ludwig a world of good.

They didn't do much.

Just sat, and drank a little too much, and Timo introduced Ludwig to his first sauna experience, followed by the traditional dive into a frozen lake (which Ludwig was not quite so excited about), and it really surprised him now that he had ever been scared of Ludwig at all.

Ludwig was reliable.

Brave.

True to his word.

And Ludwig had come to help out, even though he was fighting so many others at the same time.

Ludwig had spared a moment for someone he'd never really even met.

And that was more of a friendship than what he'd had before.

Timo was glad to walk beside of him and make small talk.

The forests seemed to be Ludwig's favorite pastime, always walking to its edge and staring into its depths, and he told Timo one night that he liked it here because everything smelled like snow and pine.

Timo made a note that, when the war was over, he would make it a point to spend more time with Ludwig.

Because spending time with Ludwig was better than he could have ever hoped for.

A huge boost to his ego and confidence.

Ludwig didn't talk down to him.

In fact, simple words exchanged with Ludwig were the biggest picker-uppers of all.

To have someone just tell him, 'you can do it.'

How odd, that four days with Ludwig had given him faith in himself.

He wouldn't ever forget those words that Ludwig had uttered that night.

'Say! You're pretty damn strong!'

Never.

The first time anyone had ever called him strong.

* * *

It only lasted five months.

But it felt like an eternity.

Five months of brothers killing brothers.

Of children bleeding to death in front of buildings and no one coming out to help.

The worst five months of his life.

Never had he prepared for this.

Everything was turmoil.

Even after the war was over, the two sides were still divided.

A catastrophe, in every sense of the word, and so _many _dead.

So many.

Numbness was mostly what he felt these days.

Shock.

And sometimes he wondered how he could ever possibly recover from this.

Alfred had done it.

He wasn't sure he could.

Maybe he wasn't that strong, after all.

He passed about in a daze, and Ludwig came to see him sometimes, just to check in.

Ludwig looked worse every time.

He imagined they looked about the same.

He was surprised he could still walk.

Ludwig took a look at him through weary eyes, and, with slumped shoulders, said, "Don't worry about getting everything back together. I'll just... I'll just stay with you until the end of the war. I'll keep my men here. Stick with me."

He had only nodded his head.

More months passed.

The wounds still stung.

And when November came rolling around, he barely even realized when the great war finally came to an end.

Here, nothing ended.

Everything still hurt.

The treaties were signed.

Soldiers pulled out.

Once Russian loyalists fled, and when Ludwig, beaten far beyond senselessness, finally fell back, everything started to quiet down, as the declaration of sovereignty rang out.

Glad to see Ivan's people go.

Ludwig's departure was bittersweet.

Knowing that he'd been beaten so badly, after helping Timo out.

But for now, the important thing was to focus on his people, and try to draw them all back together.

Civil war was the hardest.

Worse than fighting an enemy outside.

This time, the enemy had been the neighbor.

Hell.

He was glad it was over.

Even if the cost had been so high.

The road to recovery was paved now, and he was ready to march down it, no matter how long it took to stop his hands from shaking.

Little kids lyin' dead in the snow.

* * *

"I'm happy for you."

A declaration of support. Words of praise.

Even as Ludwig had to lean against the doorframe to support himself, pale and wan and the circles under his eyes visible even in the dusk, battered and bruised and yet somehow still dressed immaculately.

Ironed and pressed just to be buried.

Timo could only straighten up and resist the urge to reach out and do something—touch his shoulder, grab his upper arm for support, or even stand up on his toes and hug him.

Ludwig, so strong before the war, could barely stand up.

And even as Arthur and Francis were humiliating him to the best of their abilities, kicking him when he was down, Ludwig still had spared himself a moment from his wallowing to swing by, and offer a congratulation.

'I'm happy for you.'

Words that meant more than he could explain.

His independence.

An established, sovereign country.

No Berwald. No Ivan.

Just him.

Finland.

Others had offered congratulations, too. Erszébet and Roderich had called, and so had Basch and Herakles, but Ludwig's meant something more, because it had been Ludwig who had come in and helped.

Only Ludwig.

Berwald hadn't come by.

Hadn't even called; instead, he'd sent a shortly-worded card.

And that was it.

He was no doubt too worried about keeping face.

Or maybe he was just too stubborn and proud.

Neutrality was a convenient excuse for selfishness.

But the war was over now; why stay silent?

He hoped, bitterly, that it was guilt that kept Berwald's tongue.

Finally, Timo found his voice, and only said, "I'll try to make the best of it."

Ludwig looked on the verge of fainting, but smiled all the same.

"You'll do fine."

How _much _those words meant.

To be believed in.

"I didn't think I'd ever get this far. On my own now. Berwald's gone. Got Ivan out. I almost can't believe it! Kinda feels like a dream."

He took a step forward, as Ludwig swayed, just in case.

"Ah," Ludwig murmured, as he waved a hand in the air and nearly fell straight over from the effort, "I wasn't worried 'bout ya... I—I knew you'd pull it all together. Feel a lot better now, huh?"

Timo wanted to smile and say, 'Yeah!', but seeing Ludwig tottering to and fro, his voice rising and falling as lightheadedness came and went, kept his face blank and the excitement at bay.

He _did_ feel better now.

Time was healing, and he was finally free of all foreign rule.

He felt good.

He wished he could say the same now for Ludwig, who had believed in him.

Ludwig was beaten down.

And now he was being stomped, unfairly, and punished for something he hadn't even started.

What a travesty.

But, like Ludwig had had faith in him, he too had faith in Ludwig.

Down, sure, but not out.

It would take the apocalypse itself to take Ludwig out.

He'd rise up again from the ashes.

"Say," he finally said, in false airiness, "I made some kalja. Sit."

And Ludwig did.

Collapsed, actually.

He didn't stay awake long enough to drink.

But Timo stayed there with him all the same, and placed ice upon his bruises.

The least he could do.

Ludwig had come running when he'd called.

He would always remember that.

Always.

Ludwig hung around for a few weeks and nursed his wounds, and even though he looked so _sad _and so dazed, Timo was confident he would recover.

Those five little months civil war had nearly ruined him.

He couldn't imagine how Ludwig felt, after four years and millions of casualties.

What horrors Ludwig had seen.

Ludwig woke up screaming most nights.

His hands were always shaking.

Something else that they could bond over, perhaps; the trauma of war.

The trauma of reparations.

By staying with Ludwig after the end of the civil war, he'd been a part of the sphere of the German Empire, and that meant that he, too, was forced to pay money to all of the Entente once they'd won. And so he had to work as hard as Ludwig did.

Ludwig said all the time, 'I'm sorry you got dragged into it.'

It wasn't really Ludwig's fault.

It was his, too. Struggling with everything, he'd gone and asked Alfred (just about the only person who _wasn't_ broke anymore) for a loan in order to keep his country running.

Now he was in debt, too.

Oh well.

And besides, all this great darkness that had been cast by war had an upside :

It made being outside in the sunlight in front of the forest all the more _beautiful_, and it was only when they sat out on the porch in the late evening, when the musk from the forests was the strongest, that Ludwig finally stopped trembling and the darkness fled from his face, and the heaviness lifted from Timo's chest.

Daylight.

Timo did all he could to remind Ludwig of the things he himself had said.

'You'll get through it.'

Ludwig had urged him on.

So he did the same.

The German Empire would not be extinguished so easily, no matter how hard Arthur and Francis tried to smother the embers.

"It's quiet out here," Ludwig said sometimes, as they sat together outside.

It was.

No gunfire.

No trenches.

No tanks.

Just silence and trees and quiet friendship.

As the years passed and Ludwig struggled through the worst economic crises he'd ever known, Timo made sure to call him nearly every day.

Just because.

They got together sometimes, when Ludwig could actually spare a moment from working himself to death, and the little things were the best.

It was nice to have Ludwig as an acquaintance, and a friend.

Times that he had spent in similar fashion long ago with Berwald, but that had been different somehow.

Berwald had been a superior.

Not a friend.

It wasn't like he'd never had friends before. Toris and Raivis were friends. Eduard was a friend.

But they had never looked at him like he was strong. To them, he was just another one of the guys that were used to being bullied.

It felt different with Ludwig; a dreamy, surreal kind of _something _that he had never felt and couldn't even really put a name to. Ludwig had come when he'd called, and Ludwig had never looked down at him and said, 'why don't you just go back to Berwald or Ivan? You can't handle it on your own.'

Ludwig had had faith in him.

To Ludwig, he was a nation.

Not a colony, or a territory.

Finland.

Timo tried to keep the horizon bright whenever Ludwig stopped by, and the words cheery.

It wasn't but only a few weekends a year, but that was enough, and it was well worth it.

Ludwig, when he wasn't slaving away and having panic attacks, was interesting to be around.

Maybe not all that _fun_; Ludwig wasn't really a _fun _person, so to speak, but he was thoughtful and patient and gentle, and that was better than 'fun', anyway.

Who had ever decided what fun was?

He liked spending time with quiet Ludwig as much as he would have a loud-mouthed attention-seeker (a certain Dane came to mind), maybe even more so.

Peace and quiet was nice.

They didn't really do much.

Most of the time they just sat together.

He tried to teach Ludwig the art of skiing once or twice, but it didn't ever take so well, and usually Ludwig seemed to wind up on his face, eating the snow.

More often than not, they simply tromped in the forests through the snow, or sat outside on the porch, drinking vodka and pointing out shooting stars and glimpses of wildlife.

The soft, haunting fluttering of wings within the branches at night, as owls danced within the trees.

Ludwig stared a lot.

Didn't say much, until he'd had a little alcohol, and then he could hold interesting conversations.

Before, the conversations had been about what they'd do after the war.

But now that the war was over, more obstacles, and now the topic was 'what we'll do after we pay off all this goddamn money'.

Well, money was money.

There weren't any more people dying out in the fields or trenches.

That was all that mattered.

Hearin' Ludwig screaming in the night had been too much.

He slept quietly now, the few nights he did spend with Timo.

Timo was grateful for it.

He tried to focus on the future.

After all of that, how could anything worse possibly come about?

Ha.

Smooth sailing from now on.

He'd get stronger, because of Ludwig's assurance, and he wouldn't have to worry about any of this anymore. He'd enjoy the daylight now, even though he had to bust his ass to pay reparations, but it wasn't so bad.

Not so bad at all.

Things were looking up.

Years passed.

Berwald never called.

Ludwig grew stronger, and Timo could see him gathering up his old sense of dignity.

His own country was coming together well.

His chest could have exploded for the happiness.

But even when the sun was high and the light burst through gaps in the pine forest, Timo could swear, at times, that he heard the shifting of something dark. The rustling of unrest.

Years passed.

Shadows stirred.

How could it have gotten worse?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **: I lied. It's a three-shot. Go figure.

**Mingling** : Ohmawgawsh, thank you so much! That totally made my life, just so you know. I agree with you; Hetalia is a WONDERFUL opportunity to get to know other cultures, which has always been a passion of mine. I was far beyond flattered by your kind words! THANK YOU SO MUCH! As for that article, we may have read the same one. ;) I don't see, personally, why some people don't bother to put an effort into researching their stories, when they are given the chance to learn something new. Anyway, THANK YOU! I hope you can understand how much words like that mean to me. Support like that always gives me the urge to carry on. :D Tschüß! Dann bis bald!

* * *

**On The Nature Of Daylight**

History was doomed to repeat itself.

He should haven known that all along.

But still, as the years ticked on by and things went up and down, Timo was fairly optimistic, and it was the best goddamn feeling in the world when he stood there before Alfred, and put the very last payment into his hand.

Free of debt.

He had paid his dues, even as Alfred had given him a break from payments for the sake of the Great Depression.

Alfred had only smiled at him, in that cheeky way, and had said, 'Say! Don't you know there's a depression, or what? I swear, half of my country is out of work and you look like you've just come back from vacation!"

Ha.

That was an exaggeration. Hard work and perseverance; not a vacation.

But the words were nice, anyway, and he'd only laughed as Alfred had slapped him on the back. Besides, big dope Alfred looked a little rough, and it only added to the feeling of satisfaction to know that he would (hopefully) stimulate Alfred's economy a little by paying off his dues.

Every little bit helped in times like these.

Everyone was affected. Everyone.

Francis and Arthur had seen better days, and Berwald and Herakles looked a bit rough. Roderich and Erszébet looked like they'd been dragged straight through all seven rings of hell, and even Antonio and Ivan always looked like they were on the brink of falling asleep.

Ludwig was still suffering too, even though he was finally pulling himself back onto his feet. It was a strange scenario; of that, there was no doubt.

How odd.

Timo picked up the paper, and saw pictures of German men sitting on benches and leaning forward on top of rope, sleeping in the air because they were too dignified to sleep on the dirty ground as they searched for work and food. He picked up another paper, and saw Americans in New York holding a New Year's ball and using German Marks as confetti in a heartless mockery of the horrific inflation of the once great currency. And yet he set the paper down and raised up his eyes and looked at Ludwig himself, and saw something different.

Ludwig was thin, his clothes too big for him and looking a little too pale, hair as neat as always but not quite as glossy, the circles under his eyes still there but not quite as dark, and Timo noticed, above all else, that he was smiling.

Haggard and exhausted and too skinny, and yet whenever he came over, he was always smiling.

How strange.

Cool, composed Ludwig, who could always keep a straight face unless plastered, was smiling.

And whenever Timo asked him how he was doing, instead of saying, 'shitty, what d'ya think?' Ludwig would _really _start to act strange.

A light would come into his eyes, a vibrancy that Timo had long since been missing, and when he spoke, his deep, scratchy voice was full of pride and hope and _life_, as he raised and lowered emphatic hands during speech.

"You know, it's been really hard, but lately we've been trying to come back together! There's a man now that's rising up and—oh, you should hear how he _talks_! He's really been able to just—! I don't even really know how to explain it."

Timo only smiled, breathlessly, as stoic Ludwig blabbered away and thrust his fingers out and then clenched them, grabbing up air in enthusiasm, and it made his heart soar to see his newest friend looking so hopeful for the long run.

Ludwig, a self-proclaimed pessimist, was really looking _forward _to the future.

Nodding his head away, Timo listened to every word, and the smile slowly crept up into a wide grin.

Oh.

He was _so _happy for Ludwig.

So happy.

"He's really been lifting everyone up and making the people remember who they are! I haven't gone out and seen my people looking _so _proud for so many years! They've really starting to pick themselves up. He's going to turn everything around. He's gonna get us all back to the way we used to be. A real Germany. He's not afraid of France and Britain. He's not afraid of the damn treaty! The army's building back up. We're not going to be stomped on again. Not like that."

Ludwig, so enthusiastic and so optimistic.

How strange.

But it was a beautiful sight all the same.

Nothing, it seemed, could really get Ludwig down. He was all smiles, despite his cheap, patched clothing and weak frame. No matter how hard it seemed for him to just _breathe_, becoming winded after only a few minutes of emphatic conversation, there was no shaking the excitement.

And after that, every time that Ludwig dropped in he looked a little better.

Each time, an improvement.

First, his face; his hollow cheeks had filled out, and the circles under his eyes dissipated.

Secondly, his frame; steadily that old physique of strength came back, and in a matter of months Ludwig was no longer wan and weak. All lean muscle again.

After that, his clothes; no longer the thin cloth of poverty. When Ludwig came by now, he wore a well-tended uniform, of an expensive fabric, shined boots, and a patch on his arm with a new symbol.

Not the old Iron Cross. This was something different.

When Timo asked, Ludwig, smiling so proudly, said, "It's called a swastika! It's from Old India. It's a symbol of good luck."

"Well!" Timo replied, as he grinned away and brought out a pitcher of terva, "It's really working for you! Sit down, let's have a drink to celebrate."

Ludwig tossed himself down in the chair, still smiling like a little kid, and when Timo filled the glasses and joined him, there was nothing but happiness.

He wished it would have stayed like that.

He wished that he could have just sat there forever, watching airily as Ludwig raised up his glass and took a sip, and then crinkled up his nose and squinted his eyes and said, quickly, "Whoa!"

He wished that the laugh he had given then would have gone on forever.

But none of it lasted for long.

Things started changing.

It was in '34, when Ludwig's breathless smile finally started to fall, just a little.

He came by, and before Timo could even open his mouth, he'd said, "You got something strong?"

"Sure," Timo had responded, and instead of kalja, he brought out vodka.

Ludwig looked a little twitchy, and a little strange, but he still smiled (although it seemed strained), and when Timo pressed, he'd only shaken his head and muttered something incomprehensible about a hummingbird.

Huh.

Well, Ludwig had picked himself up pretty well afterwards, and finally summed up with, "Well, I guess—I guess sometimes things that happen are just for the good of the country, right?"

Timo nodded.

Because it was true, and he knew it too damn well.

Sometimes, awful things had to happen just for the good of the country.

He'd seen it all.

Ludwig never provided details, but that strange day seemed to have been a turning point in the cheery atmosphere.

From then on, Ludwig was a bit more quiet and more reserved, although still smiling and still trying to be hopeful.

But Timo could see that his smile was only half-hearted.

He should have known that that enthusiastic Ludwig, like so much else, was only a passing dream.

As far as _his _country was concerned, everything was smooth sailing. The wounds from the civil war were finally starting to close over, and people were smiling again. Better yet, he got phone calls all the time, from people expressing their admiration that he, and he alone, had paid off his debts.

The feeling was wonderful.

And yet, seeing Ludwig with that strange expression upon his face, as he stared off vacantly with a finger tapping his chin...

Something wasn't right.

He could _feel _it.

But he didn't understand what it could be, because Ludwig had risen back up, in the best way, and so by all rights everything should have been great!

_Germany _had risen back up, in the form of Nazi Germany.

Not the great German Empire, but Ludwig was back in prime form, strong and healthy.

So why was he so quiet now?

What was he hiding?

Others warned him that he should keep his distance from Ludwig now, and the new government that had risen up.

Something dangerous.

He ignored them.

Years passed.

Shadows came and went.

Ludwig's smile returned a little, when Berlin hosted the Olympics. That old look of pride and dignity, and he had been so excited to the be the center of attention that he had been all but tripping over his own feet when Timo had gone down to watch the games.

Everyone, then, had looked at Ludwig and barely recognized him, and it wasn't a surprise; Ludwig hadn't really been speaking much to anyone except himself and Roderich and Erszébet, and on occasion Feliciano, so it was a shock to most to see how _good _he looked.

How strong the country had become.

Even Alfred, after all his warnings, had left the Olympics, saying to Timo, 'I can't even believe how it looks here now! Hell, looks better than half of my country! I'm really surprised. I'm impressed!'

Ludwig had beamed the whole time, chest puffed and hair gleaming in the light.

As the games ended and everyone went home, Ludwig had grabbed his arm and pulled him aside and whispered, lowly, 'I'm proud of you! Fifth place is really great. You beat Berwald.'

'Yeah!' Timo had said, the burst of ego in his chest undeniable, 'I did! But you still came out number one.'

Ludwig had only smiled, and Timo had gone back home feeling proud and honored and absolutely ecstatic.

Those words had meant everything, and even though his country had done better in previous Olympics, even though he had beaten Berwald before, he still _loved _to hear someone tell him that he was better than Berwald at _something_.

Even after all this time.

He was still bitter, perhaps.

He couldn't stop smiling.

Of course, that smile didn't last long.

'38.

Late fall.

Ludwig came by then, and this time his face was ashen and his hands were trembling.

Timo knew why.

It had been all over the papers, what the Germans had called _Kristallnacht_.

He'd seen it.

Ludwig had only looked at him, and asked, voice barely above a whisper, "Can I stay here for a few days?"

Timo nodded.

He knew that Ludwig came here for a reprieve. He had said so himself, and in times of great stress and great uncertainty, Ludwig came out here into the wilderness to bask in the cool air and the pine forest.

Silence and calm.

Time to think.

If it helped, then he wished Ludwig would stay longer.

He could feel the grinding of something awful just outside the door.

The feeling was alarming, an eerie sense of dread that not even the quiet forests could suppress.

It was then that Ludwig became a bit morose, and a little irritable. He stayed for a week, and Timo noticed the shifting of his moods in the little things. He wasn't as alert as he used be, and those cat-like reflexes had become a little sluggish. He didn't eat as much as he used to. And Ludwig had always been quiet, but it hadn't ever been like _this_. Not like this.

Instead of opening his mouth to answer a question, Ludwig would only nod his head with a distant look. Instead of engaging in conversation, Ludwig would just bob his head up and down and give intermittent, 'hm's. Instead of looking at Timo and really _seeing _him, Ludwig would just stare off into space, and it literally took the snapping of Timo's fingers in his face to drag him back.

Timo couldn't really figure out what was going on, both in Ludwig's head and his country.

What was going _on_?

Ludwig's hands were always wringing in his lap when he sat down. Sometimes, when Timo placed a hand upon his shoulder, a strange passing of something across his face, like for a moment he had almost burst into tears but had caught himself at the last second.

It would have been strange even after the end of the great war to see such changes.

But to see them _now_, when Ludwig had been so elated only years before, was frightening.

Timo didn't understand what was happening.

And honestly?

He didn't _want_ to know.

So, he didn't ask.

Maybe he should have, and maybe he should have delved deeper into what was making Ludwig act like this, and maybe he could have helped.

But he never asked. Not even once.

And Ludwig just stared into the forest.

He should have asked.

Regret.

That week was the last that he would see Ludwig in a private, intimate setting for a long, long time.

He clearly remembered Ludwig walking out the door that day as the pale sunlight lit up the windows, and smiling in a weak manner as he whispered, 'See ya.'

'See ya.'

A simple goodbye.

How could he have known?

He would have made Ludwig stay longer, if he'd have known.

He wished he would have made Ludwig stay.

But he didn't.

He shut the door.

After that, everything went to hell.

And Ludwig never smiled again.

He remembered, not long after, Ludwig calling him up in the dead of night, in a drunken stupor.

Ludwig had never called him drunk. Never.

What he had said had been strange, then.

'Hey, Timo, listen. You haveta listen, alright?'

'I'm listening.'

In his bleary, sleepy daze, he had barely comprehended that he was even having a conversation, until Ludwig opened his mouth again, and what he said broke through his sleepiness like a bolt of lightening.

'Fuckin' boss made me sign a paper. I've gotta hook up with Ivan. But listen, listen, there's somethin' _in _it—I didn't get to read the whole thing, but... Just...just keep your eye on Ivan, alright? Something's gonna start soon, I can feel it coming. And that paper's gonna be an excuse for the USSR to try and take Finland back. We split 'em all up—Poland's mine. Hey, you listenin'? _Oh_, I didn't wanna sign it, I swear I didn't! The last thing I ever wanted was to haveta side with him. Please be careful. I have to stand back and see where this shit takes me.'

Ivan, huh?

Ha.

Germany and the Soviet Union may have had a non-aggression pact now, but Finland and Russia had had one for eight years.

Had Ivan finally gotten tired of it?

It seemed so.

Maybe Ludwig was just rambling.

If not...

Feeling a horrible stab of dread and numbness, he had only managed to say, mechanically, 'Sure. I'll keep a lookout.'

Click.

When Timo had called him back the next day, there was no recollection of the conversation by a sober Ludwig. Instead, he'd only droned, monotonously, when Timo had asked, 'I'm sorry, Timo. That's all confidential.'

Well, maybe so, but what Ludwig didn't remember wouldn't kill him.

He took the warning to heart, and kept the army alert.

...Ludwig was so _different_ now.

It was frightening.

At any rate, that random, intoxicated warning became a shadow of approaching doom not long after.

Ludwig, swept up in the tide of his boss' ocean, lit the spark that created the explosion by marching on Poland.

How it officially started.

But the path had been set long ago.

Spiraling down, down, down.

Timo spent the first few nights sitting there at the table, clenching his hair in his fists and kicking the table leg, knowing that it was all going to start over again and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

It had started.

The war machine was whirring again. No stopping it.

How long could he keep his country out of it?

If Ivan had his way, then the answer was 'not long'.

Two months, actually.

Eduard fell first, conceding to Ivan without a fight.

Raivis and Toris went later.

Well.

That only left Finland in the path.

Heeding Ludwig's warning and his own instincts, knowing Ivan well enough to know he wouldn't just stop there, he started to wind up his military again.

It had been a long time.

And sure enough, barely a month later, Ivan had called him on the phone.

That cool, suave voice had sent shivers down his spine.

'Timo, let's talk.'

Ivan's 'talk' as it turned out, had been demands.

No war, if he'd redraw his borders, give up some of his land, knock down his military bases and erect Soviet ones, and in return, a few towns and no aggression.

Timo's only response then had been a rather curt and rather prim, 'Go fuck yourself,' and the slam of the phone.

Ivan had _not _taken that well.

At all.

The non-aggression pact between them was broken.

Ivan marched.

But Timo was ready.

This time, he stood alone.

Ludwig wasn't coming.

Because Ludwig and Ivan were allies (a very strong word for two men such as them, who could barely stand in the same room and look at each other, two men who could barely open their mouths and utter tentative 'hello's) and so that meant that he was on his own.

Ludwig did, however, express his distaste for the entire situation, and offered distant verbal support.

Well, half of it was support.

The other half consisted of low, mournful apologies and self-deprecation.

'I'm so sorry, Timo, I tried to talk to my boss about it, but... I don't know what to do. But I know you haven't forgotten all that Jäger training, so make the best of it until I can sort this mess out. Don't let Ivan come in without a fight. These circumstances...what can we do?"

Circumstances, circumstances.

All circumstances.

'I'll be fine,' he'd said, then, even though he wasn't really sure, and he wouldn't pretend that he hadn't been a little mad.

It was a little strange, to be stuck in the middle of this bomb with the tripping wires on either side.

Ivan didn't trust Ludwig.

Ludwig didn't trust Ivan.

Neither one of them wanted to make a spark, for fear of the explosion.

Finland suffered because of it.

Oh, Ludwig.

What had he gotten himself into?

Everything had been so great not so long ago.

Well.

War stopped for no man.

Timo couldn't wait for Ludwig to come to the rescue when the time was right.

The danger was imminent.

It was _horrifying_.

Being invaded.

He'd gotten rid of Ivan.

And when Ivan came _back_, bringing with him tanks and men and the gates of hell, Timo had fallen down onto the kitchen floor and huddled into a ball, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in folded arms as he struggled not to dissolve into tears.

He didn't know if he could do this again.

Not _again_.

Civil war had been devastating.

But that had been resolved quickly; this, however, had the look and feel of a long, drawn-out, miserable affair.

He would be right about that, in the end.

But he'd pulled it together quickly.

He didn't bother to call Berwald and beg for help this time, and that was for the best. An eerie repeat of the last time; Berwald stated absolute neutrality.

Well, almost.

Berwald wasn't going to stick his neck out to help Timo and risk angering Ivan, but he did, however, put a helping hand out to Ludwig, offering railroad tracks through his land and the free, safe passage of German soldiers on to Norway, not to mention the invaluable iron he continued to sell him.

...neutral, huh?

Yeah.

Right.

He wouldn't have minded Berwald helping out Ludwig a little if he'd at least have expanded the same courtesy to _him_.

Swedish volunteers came, like they did before, but without the backing of their government.

A little bitter, Timo only shook his head to himself, and carried on.

Ludwig had called him strong once, long ago.

And being strong meant that he could take care of himself, when no one else would.

He didn't need Berwald's help.

He wouldn't give in.

He secured his borders, and waited for Ivan in the forests.

Ludwig had said that he hadn't worried about Finland back then, because he had known that Timo could pull it together.

And it was for that, and that alone, that he couldn't really be _mad _at Ludwig, who was already in a tight spot and fighting multiple enemies at once, even thought it was unfair.

He wasn't going to lie and say that it didn't bother him.

It stung a little.

He had hoped...

He had envisioned a repeat of the first time, when he'd called and Ludwig had come running. Coming to his aid when it had been needed.

But things were more complicated now.

Intervening in a civil war had been one thing.

This was different.

If Ludwig had come rushing to his aid, then he would have with one blow dismantled every treaty that his boss had drawn up, thrusting his country into a war with Russia.

And Ludwig was already fighting too many as it was.

Those had been his thoughts then, at least.

He hadn't known then how truly delicate the situation was.

He hadn't known that Ludwig had already been ordered to turn against Ivan, when the timing was appropriate.

That plans had already been drawn up.

That Ludwig was biding his time.

Finland would have to wait for Germany to get settled in on the West.

The time hadn't been right, not then.

Ludwig couldn't act.

But Timo didn't know.

So he fought on, and held no ill-will towards Ludwig.

He didn't hold it against him.

Couldn't.

Not after all those words of kindness. Not after those pushes and nudges and the boosts to his confidence.

Ludwig was really the only friend he had nowadays, unofficial or not.

He couldn't lose that over a one-time refusal.

Ludwig was hurting, too.

Besides, it felt kind of good to go on and do it by himself and prove his worth to the world, and there were offerings of support from others.

If only verbal.

Phone calls, _all _the time.

Arthur and Francis, telling him how _right _it was of him to fight against Ivan and not just give up.

Alfred, telling him that he was doing a good job and that he needed to give Ivan a beating for the both of them.

But they weren't calling him because they were concerned about the well-being of Finland.

They only called because they wanted Ivan knocked out, since he had done the unthinkable and saddled up (tentatively) with Ludwig.

And they just couldn't _stand _that.

Their words meant nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Arthur called.

'_Timo! You're doing so well! Keep at it, eh? Show Ivan who's boss_!'

'Right! Say, while we're talkin', how about you send some of your guys over here to help out—'

'_Ahh_—!'

Click.

Jackass.

Francis called.

'_Timo! I am so proud of you! Standing up against a big brute like Ivan is so great_!'

'Right! Well, since you mention it, don't you think you could spare some guns—'

'_Erhm_—!'

Click.

Idiot.

Alfred called.

'_Timo! Hey! Saw you fightin' back! Whoa, I never knew you could pack a punch like that! Good job_!'

'Right! Hey, I know you don't want to enter the war, but if you wanted to send some money or planes—'

'...'

Click.

Bastard.

Oh well.

Who needed them?

He fought on his own.

Ludwig called once, too, to offer a strange word of advice.

'_Don't strain yourself. I can't go into details over this, but don't knock yourself out. When Ivan offers you a deal, take it. And then wait. I've got something in the works. Bide your time_.'

Right.

Somehow, that was a little comforting.

Thinking that maybe cunning Ludwig had not forgotten him in the middle of this vast war.

Bide his time.

He could do that.

Berwald never called.

Months passed.

It was harder than he had imagined.

Cold and merciless.

Lurking about the white forests, men on skis fighting against tanks, skilled soldiers of few fighting against rookies of many, and despite Ivan's vast numbers and endless resources, Timo managed to hold him off for three months.

Three months, and Ivan couldn't conquer Finland.

All the might of the Red Army, stopped cold.

But a toll had been taken.

Timo finally fell back, and readied himself for a treaty when Ivan offered one.

Pressing his luck, perhaps, might not have been wise.

Ludwig's words rang in his head.

He fell back.

Ivan called.

He accepted.

Ivan got a good chunk of his land, and nearly half of all his assets.

But, damn! Not after a fight, and it hadn't been an easy one.

Timo took a little victory, however small, in the papers from other countries, mocking the mighty Soviet Union for having such trouble overtaking tiny Finland.

Ha.

Well, that was something at least. A small comfort, as he sat before the fire and nursed his wounds and tried to keep his spirits high. And he had kept himself sovereign, but it still left a bitter taste in the back of his throat, having to concede _anything_ to Ivan. Anything at all.

Oh, God, he couldn't even put into words how much he _hated_ Ivan.

He could only hope that Ludwig had a card up his sleeve.

He waited.

The phone calls stopped.

No more words of praise, now that the short rebellion was over.

Months passed.

A year.

Still, he waited.

The ache of conceding was gnawing at him.

Even thinking about Ivan brought out a horrible, burning aggression that made him just want to stomp his feet and pitch a goddamn fit.

He waited.

Restlessness.

The war raged outside.

And then, suddenly, a light.

A phone call, in the summer of '41.

Ludwig.

Timo had been bristling when he had heard that familiar old voice.

Rumbling and deep, it had come over the line, serious and a bit weary.

"_Germany and Russia have severed ties. There's no longer any treaty. My men are already on their way. No more excuses. Get up off the ground and show Ivan what you can _really _do_."

A rush of exhilaration, like a drug.

New life.

He forgot his wounds, ignored the ache, wiped clean the slate of self-pity and defeat and helplessness, and pulled himself back onto his feet.

It wasn't over.

Finland wasn't over.

He'd win back his own, and maybe get some of Ivan's in the process.

What a thought.

Do to Ivan what Ivan had done to him.

Time to start this battle back up, because Ivan may have been sitting still, but he wasn't done; he'd want more of Finland later, if he could get it.

He'd start another invasion.

But Timo would strike first, and kick back the border line into Russia.

Let Ivan come again, if he wanted to.

There was still some fight left, and if Ivan wanted Finland, then he would have to _earn _it. He'd have to get through every single one of his soldiers, and every single one of his civilians, and every single gun and tank and Jäger that Ludwig had ever sent him.

All of them.

Ivan wouldn't get shit for free.

He pulled on his uniform and gathered up his men, and when he stood there before them, there was only renewed fire and determination when he held up his head and said, 'Russia has joined the Allied forces. We're in the Axis now. And that means that we're not just a rebellion anymore. We're part of the war. Russia's the enemy, and we're not alone.'

And they weren't.

German soldiers stood there beside Finnish ones, offering specialized training and elite SS tactics, offering weapons and ammunitions and support.

Ivan had to earn it.

War started again.

But this time it was a _real_ war, not just unhappy Finns fighting off a domineering intruder. Before, it had only been an uprising. He had had no allies. No help.

Now it was a globally recognized, acknowledged _war_.

And he had companions now.

He was an Axis Power.

What a thrill.

And that meant that Ludwig was right there in the center, ready to help. He had friends, now. Erszébet. Feliciano. Kiku. Roderich. All of them were engaged in their own battles in other lands, but to know that he was still _one _of them was a boost to his confidence that he desperately needed.

He wasn't some little backwater country that nobody knew.

He was in the Axis.

And he was not to be played with.

Not to be taken so lightly.

Ivan would regret the day he had ever picked up that phone and demanded his lands.

He'd turn the gates around and aim them straight at the Soviet borders.

He'd never been so riled up.

And to see Ludwig again, after all of it, had only spurred him on all the more.

Ludwig was one of the most powerful beings on the planet.

And Timo was his ally.

Shaking Ludwig's hand then had made him forget every bit of anger that he'd had before at going it alone for those months.

"Good to see you again!"

"Likewise. I'm proud of you, Timo. I don't think Ivan's ever been so embarrassed."

The past was the past.

Ludwig was here now. And words like _that_ were what he needed.

War started up again.

He walked forward, and stepped into the dark water.

And there was no going back.

The backlash was immediate.

He'd known that Ludwig's reputation had gone down very quickly in these past few years, he knew that there had been some horrible things that had been done, but war was war, and he hadn't really expected those that had been praising him a year ago to be harassing him now.

By siding with Ludwig, he was getting treated like Ludwig.

More phone calls now.

But this time, the message was very, very different.

Arthur and Francis called to chastise him for being so _wrong _as to go against the mighty Allies and fight against Russia instead of with it.

Treacherous sons of bitches. Ha, hadn't they been calling him earlier to tell him how good it was of him to fight off the invasion? And now that Russia had flipped and joined the Allies, then suddenly _no_, he wasn't good anymore.

He was a bad guy now.

Fuck 'em.

He'd rather stick to his guns and be true to his country and be a 'bad guy' than to be a side-changing, self-serving coward, like so many others.

He was a bad guy. And that was fine with him. Just fine. Roderich and Erszébet were bad guys, too. Feliciano and Kiku were bad guys.

And Ludwig?

Ludwig, who had come when Timo had called and who had never looked down upon him?

Ludwig was the king of bad guys.

That's all he ever heard now.

Ludwig, so proud and dignified and brave, had become a plight on the world. A darkness that needed to be pushed back and vanquished. And maybe things had gotten out of hand, and maybe some awful things had been done that could never be taken back, but why couldn't they _understand_?

Why couldn't they understand that Ludwig wasn't a monster?

Ludwig was not evil. He _wasn't_.

Ludwig was just a man that had put his trust into the wrong person, and now things had gone too far to turn back. Ludwig had gotten caught up in a whirlwind that had turned into a hurricane.

A chain of misfortune.

Ludwig was a friend.

And none of the others, not even Alfred, understood why Timo had refused to agree with them.

They reminded him all the time that they were right and _he _was wrong.

Wrong?

Ha!

How was he wrong?

He'd been minding his own fuckin' business when Russian tanks had started creeping through the snow.

They were all talk.

They spun every reason they could think of why he should sit back and let things happen as they would, and turn against Ludwig before it was too late. They told him to let Ivan do as he would.

Just give up.

Ivan was an Ally now.

But, for it all, there was still the fact that Russia had entered _his _lands. Ivan may have switched sides, but that did not make him a friend to Timo. And if being Ivan's enemy in the war happened to mean that he was Ludwig's friend, then there it was.

Ludwig was on _his _side. And if that meant that he had to be a 'bad guy', then so be it.

He wasn't going to let Russia own Finland again.

Never.

Not _ever_.

He would _die _first. He'd run the country into the ground, crash it and burn it, wreck the whole goddamn thing far beyond repair before he _ever _let _anyone _own it again.

And if that meant that he had to sell his soul to Ludwig, then so _be_ it.

Being bitched at by Arthur and Francis had been bad enough.

But when he had picked up the phone and heard Alfred, things were different.

Because Alfred had been gushing over him not so long ago, standing up and proudly proclaiming that the United States stood behind Finland all the way, because he had been the only one to pay off his debts and because he was fighting for his freedom.

And now?

"_Timo! What—what are ya _doin'?"

He found himself sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window as pale sunlight broke through the cloud front.

Hearing Alfred's voice didn't bring any happiness this time.

Instead, he gripped the phone so tightly that it creaked, and finally said, drolly, "I don't know what you mean."

His head hurt.

Alfred's voice was high-pitched and almost angry across the line.

"_Don't feed me that shit, you know _exactly _what I'm talking about! How could you have ever joined the Axis? What were you thinking? Don't you understand what you're doing_?"

The rush of anger was inescapable.

Because there it was again.

Being talked to like a little kid.

It would have been easy to fly off the handle and remind Alfred that _he _was the adult here; the older and wiser (albeit weaker) one. Instead, he sucked in a great breath, and finally said, in a very strained voice, "Although it may surprise you, I _am _capable of thought. I know exactly what I'm doing, thank you."

And he was content to leave it at that, but Alfred just kept _on_.

"_Look! I get that you're tryin' to prove a point, alright? I get it! But now's not the time to try to be independent! There are bigger things goin' on than Finland's freedom_—"

Freedom?

Bigger things that Finland's _freedom_?

To hear it from someone's else would have been one thing.

But to hear it from _Alfred_?

Bullshit.

_Bullshit_!

He called it.

"The last thing I ever want to hear from _your _mouth is about anyone's _freedom_!" he cried, as he leapt out of his chair in fury and nearly slammed a fist into the wall. "_You _were the one that raised holy hell to be free and you didn't give a _damn _how many others got dragged into it! That's all anyone's ever heard you talk about! That's the only fuckin' thing you know how to _say_! That's the only goddamn thing you know how to do _right_, is worry about freedom! So don't talk to me about it if the only freedom that matters is _yours_!"

A short silence.

The first time he'd ever argued with Alfred.

Alfred, who he'd watched grow up into a powerhouse.

Finally, the voice on the other line piped up.

But it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

He wanted an apology.

He didn't get it.

"_I can't believe you_," Alfred finally muttered, "_I just don't understand you. Timo! Just—can't you just sit back for now? Just let Ivan do what he wants, and we'll sort it all out later! Look, the more time Ivan has to sit there and fuck around with you guys, the less time he has to help Arthur and Francis out against Ludwig, and God knows they need all the help they can get! You're _hurting _things out there! You need to stop working with Ludwig and start workin' _against _him! Don't you see how _dangerous _he is_?"

Fighting words, as far as Timo was concerned.

His headache blazed.

"Don't tell me that _I'm _the one hurting things! I'll do _anything _I can to keep that son of a bitch away from my people, and if I have to let Ludwig own _all _of Europe and your place too, then that's just too bad because I'm _sick _of everyone talkin' to me like I don't know left from right! I'm tired of having to keep convincing _everyone _that I know what I'm _doing_! What makes you think you know everything, huh? What makes you so fuckin' _great_? Who let _you _decide who was good or not? This—this whole thing is _your _fault anyway!"

"My _fault_?"

"Yeah! _You_! You and Arthur and Francis, you guys started this whole thing when you wrote up that treaty! You knew what it would do! You knew how _unfair _it was, but you did it _anyway_! You did all that shit and you never even stopped to think that it would come back and bite you in the ass! What did you think was gonna happen? How did you think it was gonna turn out? Did you think Ludwig was just gonna _forget _about it? Did you really think you could get _away _with it? Did you? How could you have ever done that? Aren't you supposed to _help _everyone? Now look where it's gotten us! It's your _fault_!"

And he meant every single word.

It was their fault.

They had pushed and pushed and pushed, and Ludwig had finally responded.

Just not in the way they'd wanted.

Ludwig had risen up to fight back and reclaim his pride.

It had just gone too far.

Ludwig, in desperation caused by _them_, had put his faith into the first person that had risen up.

And stupid Alfred didn't even wanted to get his feet wet in this at all. Alfred was content to sit back and watch things unfold as they would, sending out money to France and Britain but never declaring war himself.

That loud fuckin' mouth.

Timo waited.

There was no response.

Just static.

His anger ebbed down into a dull, throbbing ache.

He hadn't wanted to fight.

That's not what he had wanted.

Why couldn't they understand?

"Oh, _Alfred_," he began, in a desperate attempt to just make him _see_, "Don't you—don't you remember how _bad _you felt when Arthur was doin' all that stuff to you? Don't you remember how unfair that was? I know you haven't _forgotten_!"

Silence.

For a still, breathless moment, Timo thought he had him.

But there was a strange grunt, and then Alfred finally said, stubbornly, "_That's different_."

Lightening.

He lost it.

It was too much. Just too much.

"How is it _different_?" he shrieked, voice so high that it cracked, and this time he _did _punch the wall. "How is any fuckin' _different_? Huh? _How_? I don't understand what's so _different _about it, except that it was happenin' to someone other than _YOU_! Can't you ever think about anyone but yourself? You're a real piece of work, you know that? You're a real bastard! All you ever do is talk and talk! Just shut up! Just shut _up _and go fight this war that you helped start! How about gettin' off your ass and actually coming over here, huh? But if you do, you're gonna fight Ludwig on your own, because I won't _ever_ sit down in front of Ivan and give him Finland! I don't care what happens to France and Britain, and I don't care about the United States, either! All I care about right now is doing everything I can to keep Ivan away, and if _any _of you try to help him out, then you're gonna get my foot up your ass, too! I'll fight against _anyone _who comes in! Even _you_!"

The air changed.

A heavy veil of aggression, and any and all affection that he had ever had for Alfred was gone as quickly as the breeze.

The blaze of fury, and something that almost felt like _hate_.

Alfred finally spoke.

And he couldn't really seem to find words.

"_I stuck up for you. I told everyone how—I said all that stuff! I thought... After all the things I've done for you_—"

A step too far.

And now Timo was screaming.

Screaming.

He had never screamed like this, not in his entire life.

Not even at Berwald.

He had never been so angry.

"_WHAT HAVE YOU DONE FOR ME_? What the _fuck _have you _ever _done for me? Nothing! You've never done _anything _for me! Don't even _try _it, just don't! I'm sick of hearing you! You're the same as everyone else! Sure, it was fine for me to fight Ivan when he was on Ludwig's side, but now that he's on your side, who cares about Finland anymore, right? I only mattered when it was convenient for _you_! Don't think I'm ever gonna be sit back and take it just because you _need _me to! I won't ever take the side of anyone who stands against Finland. And I won't _ever _forget _this_, either!"

That was all he had.

And when he threw the phone down, he paced so hard and so furiously across the living room that he barely kept from slamming straight into the walls.

That had done it.

The fire had been stoked.

Alfred hadn't entered the war yet.

So Timo could only take it out on those he supported.

He picked up the phone again, an hour or so later, and called up Ludwig.

"_Hello_?"

A short conversation.

"I'm sending some volunteers down. Put them in your SS. They're all trained."

"_Alright. I'll make sure they find a place. ...how are you_?"

"I'm great!" he replied, breathlessly, and his voice cracked from the suppression of anger and aggression. "Just great. I hope you are too."

"_As well as can be expected. I have to go. I'll call you soon_."

"Ludwig."

"_Hm_?"

A hesitation.

He could still hear those words ringing in his ears.

"Knock 'em out. All of them. France, Britain. Make sure they don't ever forget it."

Ludwig snorted, and the call was cut.

Timo didn't regret anything.

Not a thing.

He met Ivan head on.

* * *

Maybe it was a little harder than he had anticipated.

Maybe he'd underestimated not the skill of Ivan's soldiers, but their endless numbers.

They just kept coming.

Ivan had _so _many men.

They just didn't stop.

Ivan threw them out and replaced them as quickly as they fell.

No stopping them.

Even with the soldiers that Ludwig sent, even with all the ammunition and the guns and the tanks, even with their own determination, they just kept _coming_.

The war outside Finland had only gotten worse.

Alfred had joined in now, but not from the need to help others. Only because his own harbors had been bombed.

Ludwig was caught in between too many of them.

Spread too thin.

Timo really started to worry, not only for himself, but for Ludwig.

Ludwig looked worse every time.

Dark.

Disheartened.

The war kept on.

Ivan didn't stop.

Exhaustion.

Timo had wondered before, what it would be like to endure years and years of ruthless war, like Ludwig had.

Now he knew.

And he wished he didn't.

Blood everywhere.

Nights interrupted by machine-gun fire and shrieking.

Shelling on innocent villages.

Civilians dying in the forests as they tried to flee encroaching tanks.

Three years of bloodshed.

No time for daylight.

* * *

Three years.

A great shadow.

And something worse than war hung on Timo's conscience.

A knock on the door.

Timo knew who it was.

And for a moment, he was too ashamed to answer.

He knew what it was about.

Oh. _God_.

What a betrayal.

What a disgrace.

He was _ashamed_.

But finally he found his feet, and pulled open the door.

It was exactly who he had imagined.

Ludwig.

Looking like a phantom.

Timo held open the door, and was surprised that he could even speak.

"Come in."

His voice was low and weak.

Mortified.

Ludwig did, and when he stood there in the entrance, he looked around, silently.

He looked like shit.

His pale eyes were frightening from behind the dark shadows on his face.

Finally, he met Timo's wandering gaze, and said, in a soft, strange voice, "No kalja?"

"I'm afraid not."

They stood there.

Silence.

It was eating Timo alive.

And Ludwig just stared at him.

He hadn't wanted to do it.

It was the last thing he had ever wanted.

But he had done it all the same.

He was as much a coward as he had ever accused others of being.

He was as bad as Berwald.

But what else could he have done?

Finland had been run into the ground after three long years of war. No money, so many dead, such exhaustion and such hopelessness as Ivan's soldiers kept coming, and even though he had tried his best—_oh_, he had tried _so _hard—he had finally taken a step back, looked at the situation, and surrendered.

He'd given up.

And he had paid the ultimate price for it.

Ivan, relishing the cruel irony, and Alfred, still angry over the past confrontation, had forced his hand.

Twisted his arm behind his back.

He'd had no choice.

But, good God almighty, it had torn him apart from the inside out when he had taken that paper up before him and signed it.

He'd signed it.

Finland's declaration of war on Germany.

He had declared war on Ludwig.

On his friend.

On the only one who had believed in him when he had been down.

On a Germany that was already dying.

It was just a matter of time.

His declaration had been adding insult to injury.

And he hated himself for it.

Ludwig stood there, and then finally asked, far too calmly, "May I sit?"

Timo went out so fast to pull out a chair that he nearly fell flat on his face.

It _hurt_.

He had betrayed Ludwig.

The fireplace roared off in the living room, and Ludwig sat himself down at the table, staring off into the flames and folding his hands politely in his lap.

He didn't speak.

Timo sat down in front of him, and held his hands beneath the table so that Ludwig would not see how badly they were shaking.

How could he?

Ludwig had believed in him.

With a low, rumbling snort, Ludwig finally sent him a look, and said, coolly, "You look terrible."

"Ha. Y-yeah, I guess I do."

He probably did.

He hadn't even combed his hair in about a week. His clothes were wrinkled and disheveled, barely even buttoned up right, his socks didn't match, and he was covered in cuts and bruises.

But Ludwig still looked worse.

After a moment, Ludwig raised up his brow, and turned away.

Timo's heart was steadily sinking down into his feet.

Ludwig hated him.

He _had_ to.

How couldn't he have?

He had betrayed Ludwig.

Ludwig, who had helped him.

Who had been a friend.

How had it ever come to this?

Stomach churning with guilt as Ludwig stared off into the fireplace, hat held down in front of his stomach and hair dirty and loose, Timo could only sit there and wait for something to happen.

It still struck him how _awful_ Ludwig looked.

Like death itself.

A shadow of that proud man that he had known.

He hadn't looked this bad the last time.

Not like _this_.

After a long silence that felt like an eternity, Ludwig turned to look at him again, and opened his mouth.

A low, scratchy whisper.

"I've been kicked when I'm down. I'm used to that. But all I want to hear from you is that it wasn't your idea. Please tell me it wasn't your idea..."

The burst of hurt in his heart was so great that he nearly fell backwards, and it was with a high voice and emphatic hands that he leaned forward to grab at Ludwig's sleeve and cried, "Of course it wasn't! I _never _wanted that! I never wanted it to come to down to this! Not _ever_, but... What could I do? Ivan and Alfred had me in the corner. And when they said 'sign'... What could I do?"

Ludwig just sat there.

Barely alert. Dazed and numb. Eyes listless.

But finally, mercifully, he gave a weary nod of his head.

"That's all I wanted to know."

Timo bowed his head in shame.

"I'm sorry. I don't know how this ever even happened."

But Ludwig didn't reprimand him or chide him.

No sarcasm or belittling remarks.

Instead, a disheartened statement.

"It's not your fault. It's mine. I was...blind. I dragged us all into this. It's not your fault."

Ludwig's far-off gaze was dull.

Haunted.

Timo could only clench the fabric of Ludwig's sleeve, a coarse, patched cloth that was nothing like the glossy uniform he'd worn before, and stare up at him in alarm.

Ludwig was deteriorating.

Right before his eyes.

Speaking in a slow, soft, disjointed manner.

"My fault. He betrayed us. He betrayed _me_. I believed him. I trusted him. I let him lead me where he would, and never even stopped to ask questions."

Timo had to lean forward just to hear him, and sometimes Ludwig didn't even make _sense_.

Just rambling.

Ludwig had been betrayed, not by Timo or other countries, but by the man he had trusted the most.

Look where they were.

Ludwig was barely aware of his surroundings.

Finally, he fell silent, muttering ceased, and Timo scooted his chair around the table to sit at Ludwig's side, still keeping a firm grip upon him.

This war was over.

Germany was over.

It was time to stop.

Ludwig had to _stop_.

He said as much.

"Why don't you just stop?" he asked, his voice cracking even as he said it, and Ludwig only looked over, and there was no missing that awful look that suddenly crossed his face as if from nowhere:

The struggle not to burst into tears.

Ludwig shook his head, brow scrunched and lips pursed, and Timo's heart broke in his chest.

"I _can't_," came the response, and Timo was startled to hear how high and thin Ludwig's voice had become; a whine of distress and despair and heartbreak. Of hopelessness. "I can't! I can't. He won't let me stop. I have to go on until the end. Until every last man, woman, and child. I can't stop."

It was Ludwig, now, who bowed his head, and even though he tried to speak more, nothing came out.

It was over.

If Ludwig would just sign...

There was no hope of any grand comeback.

No miracle turnaround.

All of Ludwig's friends had either surrendered or turned against him. Kiku may have been holding out the Pacific, but the war in Europe was _over_.

Germany was done for.

And how long before he lied down one night and never got up again?

"I'd've stayed with you until the end," Timo finally whispered, as Ludwig shook his head in a daze, "if I'd been a little stronger. But it's time to just end it all. You can't keep this up. Look at you! You have to _stop_! Can't you see?"

The plea was urgent.

It had to end.

Ludwig couldn't take any more.

The world was spent.

Destruction all around.

"Please, please, you have to stop! Just...just let it end."

Ludwig was silent for a moment, gathering himself with shaking breaths, and then he stood up, and tucked his hat under his arm.

And Timo saw that he had wiped his face clean of all emotion, and he said, as he headed for the door, "Until Russian tanks are rolling over Berlin and American planes are landing on the Autobahn, he won't let me stop. He'll force this on until the end. Even if that end is all of us. If I don't see you again, watch out for yourself. Don't make my mistakes. Goodbye, Timo."

And then, like so many times before, he walked out the door.

Gone.

And, just like so many times before, Timo wished that he had made Ludwig stay.

But he couldn't.

Ludwig was his enemy now.

Timo had declared war upon him.

They could not see each other again until this whole thing was over.

And even though he knew now that he had been deceived and used, it was too late; Ludwig was bound to his country, and would fight for it to the end, even if it killed him to do so.

Even if he would never live it down.

Even if he could never lift up his chin again.

Timo knew, as soon as that door shut, that he would never again see Ludwig look like he had back _then_. He'd never see the breathless smile of exuberance, or the frantic gesturing of excitement.

The glowing of hope.

Ludwig was jaded now.

He wouldn't trust anyone like that ever again.

And he wouldn't ever smile like that.

Even when this war finally did end, it was all but over for Ludwig.

Life as it had been before.

Everything had changed.

Timo sat at home, staring listlessly out of the window, and waited for the inevitable. The war wouldn't be over for Finland until Germany finally fell.

How strange, and how _sad_, that the peace of his country now depended upon the fall of the man who had given him faith in himself.

That for his own benefit, his friend had to surrender.

How could anyone get past this?

Everything was cloudy.

No sunlight.


End file.
